


This New Sun

by veryveryverytemporarily



Category: Emmerdale, robron
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Falling In Love, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-15 01:11:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14148660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veryveryverytemporarily/pseuds/veryveryverytemporarily
Summary: Aaron is a Celtic warrior who finds Robertus Jacobus, a Roman legionary, still hanging onto life after battle. He takes him back to his clan's village and nurses him until he's well again. When feelings develop between the two men, will they be able to stay together, and if not now, when?





	1. Swallows

**Author's Note:**

> blood cw  
> nobody dies in part 1

Part I Swallows

 

‘Did you see a storm coming?’

‘No.’

‘An eagle, crows and ravens? Maybe fire or ashes? Trees running with sap the color of blood?’

_‘No!’_

‘Well, what did you see, Aaron?’

He was beginning to wish he hadn’t come to see Harriet, that was for sure. But it was the dream, wasn’t it?

He couldn’t tell his Mum, she worried about him enough as it was. It was his cousin Belle, who’d heard whispers from the Otherworld once upon a time, that he’d opened up to. She’d brought him Zak’s chariot to repair, and he was bent over the wheel when he’d just blurted it out.

‘You have to tell Harriet!’ She’d said flatly.

And here he was, in her dimly lit roundhouse, with a smoking cauldron over the hearth, and druid’s paraphernalia all around making him nervous.

He cleared his throat.

‘Swallows, a pair of 'em.’

He closed his eyes, recalling the dream - two swallows out of nowhere, carried high up on the wind into a brilliant blue sky, like black and silver confetti. Then it was like he’d shapeshifted, something that had only happened to him once before as young teen. But this time was different; he wasn’t alone. And the thrill of the speed, and the sun, blinding, hypnotic, so that when he woke his whole body was trembling, still giddy from the motion.

He was taken aback when Harriet laughed, throwing her hair back from her face.

‘Are you planning on getting betrothed?’ She asked.

He tried to hide the eyeroll, chewing at the corner of his lip in an attempt to mask his irritation.

She must know? Everybody knew. Maybe they’d hoped it was a phase, but after Jackson had died, he’d seen how Chas had looked at him, and when talk turned to getting a bride from another clan to form a new alliance, she’d gently, but firmly spoken up and said _No, not our Aaron_ with a finality that had closed down any further discussion on the subject.

Not long after, Cain had volunteered to take him down to Colchester, take him out of himself, and once there he’d hooked up with a few lads, satisfying the physical longing, sure in his heart now about who he was, and Cain had given him space. They hadn’t actually talked about it, but when they’d been getting ready to go home, he’d mustered a _thank you_ , avoiding eye contact.

And Cain had answered ‘ _I love you, you idiot, now get your arse onto that horse, if you think it can still manage the journey, that is.’_  

Then, since then, a big nothing.

He was twenty one years old, with a growing anger that wasn’t really anger but something else, something worse maybe. And his Mum watching him through the empty days, so that he snapped at her like one of the hunting hounds nursing a thorn in it’s flesh.

‘Sorry.’ Harriet apologized. She’d remembered, then.

‘It’s just Swallows…,’ she went on. ‘The wind carries them to us from the east. You know they mate for life? Have you heard them? Squabbling non-stop? But when a mate passes, the one left behind will stay by its side and mourn - such a sad song.’

‘So, it didn’t mean anything?’  He interrupted her.

He was ready to leave - none of this was remotely relevant, but Harriet’s eyes darkened. He watched her face as she stared off into the distance.

‘All dreams mean something, Aaron. There are those that say the swallows are spirits from the Otherworld. You can see them, flying in and out of the waterfalls, passing behind the water.’

Then just as quickly, her eyes cleared, and she smiled.

‘Course, they might just mean summer’s coming. Let me know if you have another dream, anyway.’

 

 

‘What did she say?’ Belle asked later when she came to pick up the chariot.

‘Waste of time,’ he growled.

 

 

It didn’t feel like the summer was coming. The rain lashed against the earth making pools in the newly planted fields.

The moon waxed and waned and the grey days passed too slowly.

Zak threw a necklace of black Whitby jet into the river for the god Belonus, the Shining One, hoping that would bring the new sun at last.

Aaron put on a cloak of matted felt, pulling the hood up against the slanting raindrops. He made his way over the sodden ground to feed the horses with oats. The hounds, there to protect against wolves, greeted him, nuzzling his hand with wet noses, looking up at him with baleful eyes, as if he could do something to save them from the grim weather.

Later, arms folded, back in the roundhouse, he lay back against a bench, grateful for the warmth of the fire. Lydia, a Roman who Sam had kidnapped during battle when they’d allied with the Ordovices tribe, was teaching Belle Latin. He could hear their quiet voices reciting.

_‘ amo, amas, amat, ama -err -amamus, amatis, amant…’_

‘Well done!’

‘What does it mean?’ Belle asked, ‘I don’t remember.’

And Lydia laughed.

‘It means _love,_ silly.’

Aaron closed his eyes.

 

 

It was Sam who saw them first, camped a couple of days ride away, in the direction of the rising sun, near where the river slows and bends like the neck of a suckling calf.

He’d been off on his own, as was his way. Anyone else and they would worry, but despite appearances, Sam could look after himself. He had a ruthless streak, and a way with a hunting knife if he were to be set upon by raiders from hostile tribes, so they just let him get on with it.

He’d nodded off, a clutch of red hare tied to his belt, when his horse had stepped out of the Wild Wood and into a clearing, and the change in the light against his eyelids had woken him, and there they were.

‘It were a legion!’ He said, looking back at their skeptical faces. ‘I know it were; cos they had them tall wooden fences like, and I saw the eagle, so I hid from it in the trees, and then high tailed it out of there fast as I could.’

Zak decided to move the fine* to join the clan on the hill fort at Emmer, riding the half day’s journey together, with the pigs dragged on a trailer, and the hounds yapping and circling behind the sheep and cattle.

 

 

‘Hello, dear. Nice of you to join us.’

‘Shut up, Ross! You alright, Aaron?’ Pete frowned at his brother, turning to greet Aaron when he brought the Dingle horses to the stables.

‘Thought you’d be making woad with the ladies?’ Ross sneered. He hadn’t changed, then.

Aaron pressed his thumb across the palm of his right hand. He could fight or…

‘Joining us for a brew?’ Ross held out a goblet of just poured over-ripe ale.

… he could drink.

By nightfall he couldn’t remember which roundhouse he was supposed to be sleeping in. He chucked up his guts, and staggered back to the stables, making do with the straw.

It was Liv that found him in the morning.

‘Where were ya? I was worried. Thought the Romans had got ya or something.’

He shaded his eyes from the watery morning sun streaming in through the open door where his sister stood.

‘Well, that’s not going to happen! It’s not like I’d leave you behind, is it?’

‘Shame!’

‘Haha!’

He managed to haul himself up and pulled her into a hug, his chin resting on her hair.

‘Anyway, Zak wants you to go and help with the weapons at the forge. I could tell him I hadn’t found you if you like?’

 

 

He hadn’t been much help. Zak watched him bang despondently at a lump of molten iron, while sweat, half stale alcohol, poured from his skin.

‘For pity’s sake lad, the state of you! Give it ‘ere!’

So, he’d sat with his head down resting against his folded arms on the warm wooden bench. He could hear the hammer, feel the heat of the metal. Then, just when he thought it was going to last forever, the pounding stopped.

‘There now, let’s see what t’ Roman’s mek of that, eh?’

Aaron looked up at the shining sword held high in Zak’s hand, and for a moment, he saw his face reflected in it.

 

 

It hadn’t been a battle in the end, more of an ambush.

Harriet had been out in the Wild Wood collecting mistletoe and she’d heard the approach, so she’d made herself invisible and silent, climbing on her pony, and ridden back to warn them. The Roman soldiers hadn’t stood a chance. Cain suggested riding round behind them to take them by surprise, and bare chested, bodies painted in blue woad with their hair bleached silver and spiked with wet slaked lime, they’d invoked the gods, and launched their attack.

In those moments, he became a spirit thing, one with his horse, weaving through the trees until that moment, the sound of the Carnyx, the unearthly shrieking of his clan. As his horse gained momentum, his heart slowed, the echo of immortality lulling him to a stillness, filling him with a peace he hadn’t felt in as long as he could remember. It was almost as if he longed for the Otherworld. But if he was going down, it wouldn’t be alone.

He hurled his spear amid the shower of iron from his kinsfolk and the Roman shields flew up. They weren’t a legion, maybe less than a hundred infantry and a handful of cavalry. Even in the chaos he could hear them, Latin phrases passed back and forth with a discipline suggesting their veins ran with ice, while Tartarus rained death upon them. He drew his sword and swung, but the shields were pushing back against them, even with the element of surprise. He could sense the rage of his horse between his thighs as it was forced down and all at once he was topsy-turvy over the animal’s head and plunging forelegs as they hit the forest earth.

No time to think about the horse, one hand still on the hilt of his sword, with the other he drew his dagger.

He’d fought a battle before against the Romans, allied with the Ordovices, he knew how to block, where to strike, under the chin below the Roman iron helmets, through the weave and straps of their armor, slicing at the back of the hamstring and then an upwards thrust, his dagger hand slippery with sickly sweet blood. There was the maroon of the Roman uniform, white teeth and red tongues on the blue faces of the Brigantes, and then, from the corner of his eyes he saw it, Romans slipping coins in their mouths to pay their ferryman as they fell, the last thing they would taste of this life.

 

 

Aaron was left with Ross and Pete to bury the Roman dead.

He hadn’t done this before, so it was Pete who showed him how. A light scattering of earth, or a covering of leaves and other forest debris would be enough he explained.

They could just leave the bodies, but then the spirits would rise up and wander the Wild Wood, making trouble, looking for revenge against the tribal folk that happened by.

It was a sober task. All he wanted was to get it done and be out of there.

Glancing up he saw Ross moving quickly from one body to the next and frowned as he saw him pick something up and turn it in his hand, before slipping it in a pouch attached to his belt.

‘What ya doing?’ He already knew the answer. He was robbing the bodies; brooches and pins used to fasten the legionaries’ cloaks.

‘Spoils of war, my son, spoils of war!’ Ross gave a low laugh. ‘You should find something for Liv.’

‘No thanks.’

‘Suit yourself.’

 

 

Then his attention was caught.  A legionary lying on the ground next to him - he wasn’t sure, but, had he moved? His eyelids were closed. He moved closer, hunkering down on the earth beside him, and scanned his body, looking for signs.

As he looked over the soldier’s body he could see that the blood on his torso hadn’t dried, which meant he was still bleeding, which meant he was alive, right?

And then he had this curious sensation. The only thing he could compare it with was when he first saw the sea. He’d never seen it before, and yet, it had felt like he’d always known it, somewhere inside him.

‘Maybe it’s your spirit that knows it?’ Belle had said, as they gazed wide-eyed at the water. ‘Let’s go in!’

‘What in there?’ He’d been appalled.

But she’d tugged him by the arm until they were caught in the waves, gasping with shock at the ice- cold water, laughing like idiots as they ran out again.

Now, here, with this unconscious stranger, he felt his heart kick start in the same way as it had that day in the water.

 _He didn’t even look like a Roman._ He had pale solid limbs, nothing like the other Roman’s he’d come across. And from what he could see of his face and throat, the gods had patterned him with a likeness of the stars.

He blew air through his cheeks.

Why was he making such a big deal out of this? He knew, he _knew_ , that some of the soldiers might not be dead. And he _knew_ what he was meant to do.

His fingers curled around the hilt of his sword, but he still hesitated. This felt so different from the heat of the battle.

He decided he’d take off his helmet. And then he’d do it.

He gently eased it off, revealing his blonde hair, cut very short, regulation military.

He drew in a sharp breath. He’d stalled long enough. It was time to get this done.

This was it, then. His mouth felt dry.

And just then, the soldier opened his eyes.

 

They looked at each other.

(Later Aaron would swear he could hear the bird call, even then, and maybe he had, maybe he hadn’t. And yes, he was being soft, but whatever.)

They still looked at each other.

Then suddenly, the Roman’s eyes widened, and his tongue wet his lips. Aaron recognized it for what it was - a moment of fear - after all his chest and face were still painted with woad, his hair stiff and silver with lime, he was a warrior of the Brigantes, hovering there with a sword in his hand.

He let the sword slip from his fingers.

And then the Roman tried to raise his chin. Aaron wanted to touch him, to help him, but he felt too shy.

‘Audi, stultus, ubi meus equus?’ 

The legionary was speaking, but it was Latin, Aaron couldn’t understand a word.

‘What do they call you?’ He asked gently.

‘Robertus Jacobus.’

‘Okay, listen, erm, Robert, my name’s Aaron, and you’re going to be alright, yeah? I’m not leaving you here, I’m fetching a horse from over there, then I’m taking you back, so hold on, yeah? I’ll be gone for a minute, but I’m coming back.’

He ran to where the horses were tethered and led his horse back to where the legionary still lay bleeding.

Pete and Ross looked up, squinting across at him. He called out to Pete.

‘Give us a hand will you, mate?’

Together they gently wrapped the Roman in a cloak and lifted him over the horse.

‘Where are you going?’ Ross opened his hands, palms skywards.

‘I’m taking him back to Emmer.’

‘Are you barking? Do you fancy him or summat?’

Aaron curled his lip. He didn’t care. He needed to get back and get help for the soldier before it was too late. He mounted the horse behind the Roman and took the reins.

And _then_ he heard the bird call.

He looked up and high above he saw a swallow in descent, cutting across the sky in a spinning arc, and all at once another, skimming upwards to join it.

For a moment they circled, then dipped, dancing together fleetingly, before climbing again, and as quickly as they’d appeared, they were lost from sight.

Aaron leaned forwards, spreading his fingers nervously over the bundled semi-conscious Robertus Jacobus in front of him, and digging his heels, he urged his horse into a run, taking him home.

 

Harriet had been right.

 

Summer had finally come.

 


	2. The Roman Patient

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No one dies in this chapter either haha

Part II SPQR

‘Leave him alone, can’t ya? I don’t see why, just because he was a legionary, everyone automatically assumes he’s a nob!’

‘Maybe everyone assumes he’s a nob because he is a nob?’ Cain looked up at him sharply.

‘And not _was_ a legionary, _is_ a legionary, always _will be_ a legionary according to the stigma on his backside. I’m guessing you have noticed it?’

Course he’d seen it.

He’d been washing off the blood from the battle wounds and there it was - the tattoo; _SPQR_ \- property of Rome, right there on his gluteus maximus. He couldn’t read it, it was Belle who’d told him what it meant.

But it had surprised him; he’d heard enough sitting in the roundhouse of an evening, to know that Romans didn’t normally have tattoos, at least, only slaves, or criminals.

Not like the Brigantes who wore theirs with pride. Aaron had a bear on his left bicep, made at his coming of age, it had grown with him as his body changed from boy to man.

Later that summer they’d compared them, lying naked on their fronts, bodies soaked with sweat, Robert twisting his neck back to get a better view of his arse cheek. They’d done it in Carthage, he’d explained; pricked him with a needle and then applied the ink made from leek juice and pine bark.

‘I like being pricked by you, better,’ he’d added with a sly grin, already angling again for Aaron’s mouth.

‘I don’t like that it says property of Rome,’ Aaron had mumbled, stalling the kiss.

‘No?’

‘I don’t want anyone to own you, but me.’

And with a low laugh, Robert had turned onto his back, spreading limbs languorously.

‘Own me, then,’ he’d said.

 

For now, though, Cain was still watching him as he ladled mutton broth into a clay bowl to take back to his patient.

‘Want my advice?’

‘Do I have a choice?’

‘Put him over the back of your horse, tek him up onto the moor and leave him. Bit of luck he’ll wander into a bog and be greeted by his gods, if they want him that is. Otherwise, Aaron, we all might end up regreting this.’

‘Aye,’ Sam had piped up, ‘And keep him away from the lasses, they’re already all talking about the Roman nob an all, size of it...,’ he sniggered.

‘Sam’s right. There’ll be no Roman ploughing in these fields,’ Zak added. ‘Keep the womenfolk away. D’ya hear me, son?’

Aaron curled his lip.

‘I hear you.’

He turned to go, caught his mum looking at him, felt himself color. He was all tangled up, like a young buck caught unexpectedly in a trap in the rutting season.

 

He fell in love willingly, like the children he’d seen rolling down a grassy slope in play, until an outcrop of heather or a ferret’s hole would slow their progress, and then with a little push, they gathered speed, going faster and faster.

The legend goes he was in love even before his horse jumped the final ditch surrounding the hill fort of Emmer.

[ In some later versions there was mention of magic - of love potions, that the Roman had dipped his sword in horny goat weed, hawthorn and wild rose. But that was when the Romans in Britain were less popular again, ergo political opinion was better served by Aaron's story being told that way.]

Once through the gate he circled, warning off outstretched arms willing to help him with the unconscious Roman, bristling like a she wolf with her brood. He only wanted his cousin Belle.

He rode to an outhouse, a part of the stables set apart where they took mares about to foal, laid his patient on a wooden bench, and stripped him, slicing through the leather buckles of his armor and cutting through his tunic with a hunting knife.

For two days he’d washed his wounds with water heated over a hearth fire he’d built with Belle’s help and applied poultices of herbs begged for from Harriet.

He’d never been this close to a Roman, except in battle - he smelt different, he’d heard of the eastern perfume Oudh, imagined it was something like this heady scent.

Belle had helped him turn the comatose Roman over, and Chas had spoken from the stable entrance.

‘She shouldn’t be here.’

He heard it in her voice. She sensed the danger, the sensual pull - animal magnetism, call it what you will.

The whole village gravitated to see the exotic invalid, _he had three balls and twelve toes, no six balls and twenty toes, he was ten-foot tall, and when he pissed it was a gushing fountain higher than Cautley Spout Falls._

Aaron snapped at them, chasing them away.

The Roman drifted in and out of consciousness.

Sometimes he spoke in Latin.

When Ross and Pete came back leading a couple of Roman cavalry horses that had survived the ambush, and put them in the stable adjoining, he’d been disturbed and muttered, ‘ _Audite, meus equus!’_ but Aaron didn’t know what it meant.

He covered his patient with a wool weave blanket, and took another, winding it around himself at night, sleeping on the straw.

 

Then the Roman woke up, and it turned out Cain was right after all, the object of his love was a nob.

 

‘Am I a hostage?’

It was the first thing he said in the language of the Brigantes. He spoke fluently, though with an accent.

‘So, go on, am I? A hostage? What’s in it for you then? Gold, silver?’ His eyes traced Aaron’s face as he spoke.

‘No, you were wounded …’

‘Not quite the warrior, then? Didn’t have the guts to finish what you started?’ The Roman sneered.

 

He fed him with broth made from bone marrow to give him strength, holding the spoon to his mouth, watching his lips, the rise and fall of his smooth chest at the effort of eating. He gave him ale to drink and blinked when the Roman spat it out.

‘Blech! What is this? Haven’t you got any wine?’

‘No. You’ll have to make do.’

 

‘She your wife, then?’

‘No.’

‘Girlfriend?’

‘Cousin, actually.’

‘Isn’t that what you tribal lot all do? Interbreed? Bet that’s what you get up to in the hay, eh? Dirty little stable lad?’

‘I’m not…’

‘What?’

Aaron just shook his head.

‘Not what?’ The Roman’s eyes were narrowed, watching him.

‘Never mind. Drink that, it’s for the pain. If we're lucky, it’ll knock you out for a while.’

 

 

Aaron brought Lydia to see him, thinking it might help having someone who spoke the same language. He hovered listening to her as she addressed him, but all Robert had done was roll his eyes.

‘Who is she again? Can she leave now?’

Outside, he’d apologized, like a disappointed parent.

‘It’s alright. He’s probably in a lot of pain. It gets people like that. Perhaps he’d like to try some chicken.’

‘Try wh..?’

‘Chicken, it’s a sort of bird, very popular in Rome.’

‘We don’t have, what did you call it – chicken?’

‘I know, shame that.’

 

In the quiet evening he fed him curds and whey, the metal spoon scraping against the ceramic dish before he lifted the creamy liquid into his open mouth. He wondered if the Roman had a consort, he knew the soldiers weren’t allowed to marry, but he’d heard it wasn’t uncommon.

He’d heard other stuff, too, about Rome. Things that were difficult here were normal there, he’d heard. He didn’t know, but he was tired of longing for something he might never have.

The spoon missed, spilling creamy liquid down the Roman’s chin. He hesitated, watching him raise a finger, using the back to wipe it upwards in a shiny streak towards his open red lips.

 

‘Aaron?’

He started at his name, amazed that the Roman had remembered, moved closer.

‘Robert?’

Saw his own surprise reflected in the Roman’s eyes.

‘Were there… others that survived?’

‘No, you were the only one.’

The Roman turned his face away.

‘They were your friends.’

 _Friends, Romans, Countrymen_?

‘Not exactly. Shut up now and let me sleep.’

 

Aaron followed the path of moonlight back from the roundhouse, the only sound his footfalls and the night time serenade of a turtle dove.

In his arms he carried wool tunics, soap made from animal fat and a cudgel to scrape at the dried woad on his skin. He hadn’t washed since the battle, his hair brittle and caked with lime.

He was deep in thought.

Ross had been there with a tray full of brooches and silver coins, _SPQR_ \- property of Rome, but not anymore. Debbie was there, her eyes cast downwards, a ribbon of maroon silk binding their waists, two into one.

He opened the stable door with a soft click, the Roman asleep, the cauldron of hot water hissing over the fire.

Scoops of scalding water ladled into a metal bowl, adding cold from a wooden barrel, and then he bent and lathered his hair with soap, rinsing with a cup, letting the chalky grey liquid spill onto straw, twisting his neck, running a hand through his suddenly soft wet locks.

He stood in the firelight, then moved his hand to his stomach, finding the string at the waistband of his trousers, unfastening it.

With two hands he pushed the trousers down and stepped out of them, and now he was naked.

A wool flannel, worked with soap, moving over the curve of his chest, chin tucked in, looking downwards.

He rinsed. Then soaped again, moved the flannel between his thighs.

Something made him turn.

The Roman on his side, eyes open, lips apart -  looking at him in the firelight.

Aaron’s loins flooded with heat. He wanted to be looked at, by him. He caught his lower lip in his teeth.

He was rolling down that hill, gathering speed, going faster and faster.

 


	3. Meus Equus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one dies in this chapter.

Part III Meus Equus

 

What’s this?’

‘Just eat it.’

Robert lay on his side, resting against his elbow, a light blanket bunched over his middle, keeping him decent.

Aaron kept his eyes lowered, trying not to measure the distance between his nipples with how many times he’d need to move his mouth across his skin.

‘What is it?’ Robert asked again.

‘Well, it’s not …,’ Aaron looked upwards, searching for the name of the food popular in Rome that Lydia had said, ‘… _chicken,_ ’ he remembered.

‘ _Chicken?_ No, it’s not,’ Robert mocked.

‘It’s pigeon. It’s just a fry up.’

He’d gone out early with a sling, shot made of stones picked out from the chalk beds of the stream that meandered through the fort of Emmer before exiting via a tunnel to the Wild Wood below.

‘Little fat pigeons!’ Sam had remarked on his return.

He would have cooked them in the stable, but it was getting too warm to light a fire, even the straw was starting to steam. And anyway, he didn’t know what he was doing until Marlon had shown him how.

‘They’re better hung for a few days.’

‘Tough, I need them now.’

‘Well they will be - tough, I mean. No one appreciates that food is an art, but oh no, it’s all cave graffiti and filigree.’ 

Robert raised a pigeon heart to his lips, shiny, the size of a shelled hazelnut.

‘It’s actually rather good.’

Aaron kept his eyes lowered, but Robert went on. ‘…You can do it, then.’

‘Do what?’

‘Smile. It suits you, you know.’

 

‘I tell you what would go well with this? Wine.’

‘We haven’t got any wine.’

‘If you say so.’

 

Summer arrived that year swept up with winds from the Sahara, carrying red dust over the continent until it finally hit the southern shores of Britain where it freckled the yellow broom flowers.

One day soon, it would travel north, bringing with it more soldiers of imperial Rome, looking for revenge and conquest.

But Aaron of the Briganti was caught up with other freckles.

‘When you’ve done fannying about with that legionary of yours, there’s work waiting for you, those horses won’t muck themselves out,’ Cain had said.

‘Alright, he’ll be gone soon enough.’

‘On the mend, is he?’

‘Looks that way.’

 

‘How do you know he’s not going to murder you or summat in your sleep?’ Liv had asked, stopping by at the stable door.

‘Well that’s hardly likely to happen, is it? He can’t even stand up!’

Presumably one day soon he _would_ stand; he would walk, piss and shit unaided and outdoors like a normal human being, he would wield a sword again, offer gifts to whoever were his gods - probably Jupiter was one of them Aaron supposed, not that he knew much about it.

But it left him conflicted - with Jackson after the accident, that had been it - although they’d built him a chair, a sort of chariot with wheels that Aaron had taken him about in until he grew too weary and bitter to care to see the sky.

At the time, Aaron had asked the river spirits for a cure - he’d made a carving from wood of his torso and limbs and thrown it in the water and watched as the fast-flowing currents carried it away.

And then, a few weeks later, it was over. And he’d just had to live with it.

There was something different about the Roman. Even wounded, he glowed with vitality like Apollo Belenos himself, like he intended to live forever, well, til he was eighty at least.

‘He doesn’t look like a Roman,’ Liv added, peering inside.

‘What do I look like then?’

‘I don’t know, maybe Iceni, except, doesn’t it grow?’

She arched her eyebrows, cupping a hand under her face.

Aaron knew there was a faint scruff growing there - just a couple of days before he’d heated water, and given the Roman some of Lydia’s lavender soap that he’d thieved, and a sharpened knife. He’d watched quietly as the water turned blue, Robert’s fingers wet around the blade against his face.

‘Liv!’ Aaron objected now, nudging her further away from the door.

He glanced up at the blue sky, feeling the sun’s warmth already on his cheeks even though it was still early morning. In the distance there were crows and ravens, circling like black ash in the breeze. He knew why they were there.

‘Everyone’s getting ready for the funeral,’ Liv said. ‘They’re moaning that you’re not helping out.’

‘Let them moan.’

When he went back inside, Robert turned onto his back, lifting himself onto his elbows so that the blanket slipped down to his waist.

‘What funeral?’ he’d asked.

It seemed like the whole clan was caught up with the preparations for the funeral, which was late.

Three Briganti warriors had died in the ambush. One of the dead was a bride, brought in from the Carvetii clan, so they’d sent a rider, and for now they had to wait.

‘I know the Carvetii,’ Robert said with a grimace. ‘They used to make forays south during the campaign against the Ordovices, carried out hit and run raids, and not just on the Romans, Briton settlements too; burning roundhouses, uprooting crops, stealing livestock.'

‘Well, maybe they saw them as collaborators,’ Aaron frowned, running water over pears he’d taken from Marlon’s store.

‘You wouldn’t do that, though.’  

Robert reached out a hand for the pear.

‘In Rome we have this purple fruit, with lots of seeds,’ the Roman said, ‘I’ll never forget the first time I tried it.’

Aaron didn’t know what it was, but he felt a sudden longing to taste it. He watched the Roman as he opened his lips against the freckled skin of the pear, then bit into it, the juice splashing over his chin, and felt his heart beat, suddenly, hot and hard in his chest.

 

In the evening when his patient slept, Aaron decided to while away some time in the roundhouse. It seemed Zak and the other men were at the forge still planning the funeral arrangements, but when Chas suggested he might want to go and join them, he shook his head.

Instead he settled down on the woven rug with his back resting against a bench. He stretched like a cat. When his Mum brought him a jar of mead, he raised his eyebrows in thanks.

Then Liv moved next to him, and they played a game of knucklebones while the women talked.

One of the sows was about to give birth, Charity’s horse was lame having been bitten by a snake, the hazels were in flower and come Samhain there should be a good crop. The tip of Belle’s sword had snapped. She’d taken it to the forge to be recast. She wanted a new design on the hilt, like the ones on the Roman brooches that Ross had taken from the ambush. No. Not like the one of an erect dick, _thanks very much_!

‘He’s going to give that one to Debbie, isn’t he?’ One of the women joked.

‘Thought he already had?’ Lisa answered.

Aaron lowered his eyes, and coughed.

‘I won!’ said Liv.

‘Do you think Debbie’s making the right choice for a husband, then?’ Belle asked.

‘Well she thinks she’s in love, dear.’

‘Ah, _love_!’ Lydia said. ‘Even the God’s were ruled by love. Look at Apollo Belenos. He fell in love with a lass, but the wind loved her too, and, how does it go? Oh yes, they went hunting, but the wind was jealous, and when Belenos drew his bow to kill a stag, the wind blew the arrow off course and it hit the lass instead. She died in his arms, and Belenos wept so hard his tears turned her into a flower red as blood, or was it a yew tree? I can never remember.’

‘A _lad_ ,’ Aaron muttered.

‘What’s that, love?’

‘He fell in love with a lad.’

There was a sudden quiet, Aaron already shifting, while the women looked at their hands and remembered their mending work.

‘You know what? Aaron’s right!’ Lydia mused. ‘It _was_ a boy…I remember now…’

Aaron was at the door, Chas following.

‘I thought you might stay. We hardly see you these days. Don’t you think you’ve done enough for that Roman by now? Sam can go and watch him.’

But he was already out into the starlit night, bumping shoulders with Cain on his way in as he left.

‘Watch it, son! What’s got into him?’ Cain asked.

‘I don’t know, but I can guess. It’s that Roman, isn’t it?’ Chas answered in a low voice.

‘What are you saying?’

‘I just... I think Aaron’s got feelings for him.’

Cain’s eyebrows shot up.

‘So, do something. You need to get rid!’

‘Alright. Leave it with me, sis.’ Cain went on, ‘And so as you know, the Carvetii arrived at last, they’re in the guest house - a day’s rest, and then we can hold this funeral.’

 

‘ _Aloe_ ,’ Harriet passed a vial to Robert.

It was good of her to come at all. Aaron knew that she was preparing for the funeral rituals.

‘Your wounds are healing well enough,’ she went on, ‘and this will help speed up the process, or at least, that was what I was told by the trader, I think it’s from your part of the world, isn’t it?’

Robert had smirked, he was still smirking after she’d gone.

‘What’s up with you? She’s a priest!’ Aaron hissed.

‘Nothing.’

‘Tell your face that.’

‘Alright. It’s just, in Rome we use this for something else.’

‘What? Do you swallow it?’

‘No, though you can, it tastes fine. It’s less acidic than olive oil, or any oil really. But it has better uses, it’s to do with the consistency, see?’

Robert shuffled sideways onto an elbow, opened the vial and dipped in, then held up a finger glistening with transparent gel.

Aaron looked, raised his eyes to find the Roman watching him, saw the tilt of his mouth and felt heat flood his face.

‘You seem to know a lot about it.’

‘Why wouldn’t I? You asked, I told you. Aaron… Aaron? Where are you going now?’

Outside Aaron ran into Noah nudging cattle down the path with a stick, on their way to the slopes outside the fortress. He curled his lip.

‘I’d rather spend time with dumb beasts,’ he muttered under his breath.

Noah raised his eyes questioningly.

‘Never mind.’

But after Noah was gone, his mind ran back to the Roman, how he was hung like those souvenir mini statues of deities he’d seen in Colchester, all cock. Harriet had one amongst her druid’s paraphernalia, he recalled with a frown.  

And what had he meant? He’d not actually told him anything, and yet sometimes he felt the Roman knew everything about him, or had he just guessed? He placed a hand on his stomach, feeling an ache that had been there for days now, getting worse.

And then there was a noise behind him and when he turned, there he was, pale, wearing the red dyed tunic, leaning heavily against the open doorway for support, squinting at the first outdoor light he’d seen in weeks. The Roman was finally up.

‘What are you doing?’

Aaron took a step towards him, ready to offer help if he looked like he was going to fall.

‘I err, look, what I said - I don’t always think before I open my mouth, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable just now, alright?’

His tongue wet his lips, and Aaron saw his fingers curl more tightly around the stone work of the door.

His eyes were scanning the path between the stable and the closest roundhouse, past that to the forge, and then beyond to the fortress meadow where sheep grazed and the stream traveled down to the first of the earth ramparts.

‘I am right though, aren’t I?’

‘About what?’

The Roman turned his face back to Aaron, and for a moment, their eyes met.

‘About you.’

And a bird song carried on the summer wind was doubtless the song of a swallow, or at least that’s what the legend said. And who knows what Aaron would have answered if he’d had the chance.

Instead it was the Roman himself who stopped him, raising a finger to his lips.

‘Audi! Meus equus!’

All at once, Belle rounded the corner, leading a string of horses back from grazing on the slopes beyond the earth ramparts of the fortress.

A grey mare had broken away from the group of dun and black Briganti mounts. She was magnificent.

She must have seen him because she’d whickered, calling out, and sidestepped, nervous on the narrow route, then danced towards him where he leant unsteadily on his feet.

Aaron watched as the grey presented her flank to the Roman who ran his fingers down over her withers.

‘Andalusian, pure bred, the best war horse there is. I’m talking your language here...’

Aaron nodded, admiring her compact chest, the blue veins running down her legs. She nipped lovingly at the shoulder of Robert’s tunic, but he pushed her cheek away.

‘Cost me enough, bought her from the Consul’s wife in Carthage, at a discount of course,’ he leered.

Ross, hearing the horses and the commotion appeared from the neighboring stable, his face waspish.

‘Actually, she’s mine. I found her after the battle. Finders keepers,’ he said.

The Roman shook his head.

But Ross was already turning the grey mare around to follow the others inside.

 

‘I thought you were infantry,’ Aaron said later.

He didn’t know how he could have missed it, the clues had been there, the Roman’s solid thighs, and well, his arse.

‘No, not infantry, cavalry. Something else we have in common.’

At the time, Aaron had nodded, still too preoccupied with this new information about his patient, but there would come a time later, replaying conversations in the dark, when he’d remember his words, and wonder what he’d meant by _something else._  

‘But there were only a few cavalry with the legion? Where were the rest?’

‘We weren’t a legion, we were auxiliaries.’ Robert was watching his face. ‘You don’t know what that means, do you?’

And since he was right, Aaron let the conversation drop.

 

It was Pete Aaron asked about auxiliaries.

‘I think they’re recruits, volunteers in it for the money as far as I’ve heard.’

‘Soldiers for pay?’

‘Aaron, all Roman soldiers are paid. More like, in it for what they can plunder, wealth, status, reputation. As far as I heard they’re not even Roman citizens.’

‘How’s that?’

‘I’m almost sure they come from different parts of the Roman empire, or they’re freed slaves, that sort of thing. But I’m not an expert. I reckon Zak would know more, having been to Rome in his youth. You probably best ask him.’

 

That night he dreamed that they were eating a purple fruit, side by side on the straw, their shoulders touching. Robert turned to him, smiling, and he could see the ruby red jewels of seeds inside his mouth, but they were melting, and as the smile faded from the Roman’s eyes, he realized it wasn’t juice from the fruit - it was blood.

He woke with icy fingers of fear crawling over his scalp.

He listened in the dark for the now familiar sound of the Roman breathing in his sleep, and then quietly extracted himself from his makeshift bed and went to the door.

Hit by a rush of cool night air, Aaron shushed the dogs and looked up. The great bear upended like a giant question mark stretched across the indigo of the deep night sky.

 

Maybe it was the dogs that had woken the Roman after all, because when he stepped back inside, he could see his eyes were open, and then he spoke, his voice low with sleep.

‘That you, is it?’

He gestured to Aaron’s bear tattoo on his bicep, lit by the moonlight.

Aaron nodded.

‘You ever shape-shifted, then?’ The Roman asked.

‘Once, or twice. What about you? What’s your spirit animal?’

‘Don’t know. I never had a coming of age.’

‘Suppose it’s not a Roman thing, then? I can’t imagine that. I dunno, it must be lonely, though.’

‘I’m cold. Come here, keep me warm, will you?’

 

So, Aaron lay down beside the Roman for the first time, that night. He lay over the weave blanket, not ready to have their skin touch, instead feeling the contours of the Roman’s body fitting against his own.

He wanted time to stop, now, or change its course. His mind wandered to the Wild Wood, to the river and the river gods, and he remembered the still deep pools where he’d watched the beavers build their dams, until the searching water found another route. He wanted to build a dam over time he realized, and with that thought he fell asleep.


	4. Pax Romana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No one dies in this chapter.  
> Had a wobble but this is the same chapter reposted, thanks for the lovely comments and sorry they got deleted xx

Part IV Pax Romana

 

The trees were so tall you had to crane your head, bending your neck right back to see the patchwork sky high up beyond the very top branches.

But they were there - the swallows, sketches against the hazy blue.

There were two of them, arrow marks erased as quickly as they appeared, small soaring cupids.

Aaron frowned and turned his attention back to the path.

He let the reins lengthen through his fingers, letting his horse find her own steps along the track slippery with leaf mould as they penetrated deeper into the forest.

Behind him Robert rode double, his knees nudging up against the back of Aaron’s thighs so that his blood quickened, unsettled by the contact.

 

‘You need your head examined. You’re not fit to ride yet,’ he’d said.

‘Are you volunteering?’ There’d been a leer, or had he imagined it?

Was it a Roman thing, or a Robert thing, the innuendo? He’d never met anyone like him.

But when he’d asked for help, he couldn’t bring himself to say no. He’d said he wanted to remember the Roman dead, build a memorial or something, and Aaron was touched to think that underneath that selfish arrogant exterior, maybe there was something human about him after all.

They’d snuck out of the hill fort.

‘Doesn’t say a lot for your defenses,’ the Roman had observed when Aaron explained the plan.

Aaron had pulled in his chin.

‘We’re going  _out._ The point of the defenses is to stop people getting  _in.’_

‘Well I’m sorry but a weakness is a weakness.’

‘Do you want to go or not?’

‘Course!’

‘Then I don’t get what the problem is.’

 

Then there’d been the business of the trousers.

‘I’m not wearing them. Only girls wear breeches,’ the Roman had objected.

‘You’re going riding in the Wild Wood, I know it’s summer up here, but it can get chilly down there.’

‘I’m not wearing them. You barbarians can keep your dress code and I’ll keep mine.’

Aaron had taken one of the cavalry saddles, leather with four horns, designed as a brace to stop the Romans falling off during manoeuvres, kneeing his horse in the belly as she’d blown herself out when he’d strapped it on.

‘I can ride bareback, you know,’ his Roman patient had said when he’d seen it.

‘Just get on,’ he’d growled back.

‘Well I will, except you’ve fastened the girth wrong,’ the Roman had grinned. ‘Take it off, I’ll mount behind you.’

 

The plan was that Aaron would ride out of the fortress gates, down past the cultivated fields to where the trees start, then ride along the tree line and double back up the steep slope to where the stream exited through a tunnel on the other side of Emmer. Robert, still in the fort, would go to the tunnel and wait, then Aaron would dismount, follow the tunnel back in on foot and help Robert come out.

After, Robert had recounted how Sam had nearly wrecked things from the outset.

‘It was like he was waiting for me. When I came out of the stable.’

He put on a fake accent imitating Sam’s voice.

_‘Alright? Where are ya goin?’_

_‘Call of nature.’_

_‘The stream flows that way. I’ll come with ya, in case you need a hand like.’_

Then Belle had called Sam away, with a small nod to the Roman, and he’d got to the tunnel just as Aaron appeared with his face peering into the dank darkness from the other side, his horse behind him head down chomping at the rich waterside grass.

‘Why was Sam there, though? It’s pretty obvious, I  _am_  a hostage, aren’t I?’

‘You’re not a hostage.’

‘Then why all the sneaking about?’

 

‘I’m not building a pyramid, you can stop now.'

Aaron dropped the rock he was carrying. It landed with a clack against the others he’d collected. He straightened up. Below the Wild Wood spread before them fluorescent in the sunlight.

His horse grazed a safe distance from the tree line.

He knew now they’d been followed, knew it was Sam lurking somewhere in the undergrowth. He must have somehow caught up because he’d been tracking them for a while.

He rolled his eyes, turned back to the Roman.

‘So, if you were aux…,  _aux_ …well, what you said, then where was the actual legion?’

Robert cocked an eyebrow.

‘I can’t tell you that, cos then I’d have to kill you.’

He opened his hand around Aaron’s knife that he was using to whittle bark off a long stick of wood.

‘We didn’t need a legion, we would have been enough on open ground, or to take the fort,’ he added.

‘But why? I mean, why now?’

‘A change of leadership, new emperor, new governor. The hearts and minds campaign may have worked in the South, maybe they got fed up of waiting for the same thing to happen here, realized the Celtic hoards in the North had neither?’

He was so ungrateful, but Aaron refused to take the bait.

He watched as Robert carved marks in the stripped wood, he knew he was writing, he wanted to ask what, but he hated feeling at a disadvantage.

‘The Roman army is invincible, you know that Aaron, they will take the North.’

He looked out again from the crag top. They were about an hour’s ride from Emmer, but he could make out the shape of the hill where the fort sat. It had always been there, it was there before anyone had even heard of the Romans, there’d always be Celtic tribes in the North.

Then the Roman eased himself up off the boulder where he’d sat. He placed the carved pole of wood at the center of the pile of rocks Aaron had assembled, stooping to build them upwards around it in a supportive structure. Aaron bent to help.

Finally, Robert took a Roman helmet they’d recovered from the scene of the ambush on their way there, and rested it on the top of the pole, so that it stared faceless over the valleys, the red plume ruffled by the breeze.

Robert rubbed his palms clean, stepping back.

Aaron muttered a Briganti prayer to the gods.

‘Hold on!’

He moved lithely over the ground to where he’d left a saddle bag, and pulled out a leather flask. He brought it back and held out his arm to the Roman.

‘What’s this?’

Robert took it, opened it, then smelt it. There was a glint in his eyes as he looked back at Aaron.

 _‘Wine?_ You said there wasn’t any?’

‘Alright, there were some barrels, I might have stolen it.’

_‘Stolen?’_

He saw the grin on Robert’s face, tried to stop himself from smiling back. Then his face changed to alarm as he watched Robert drink, swallowing down mouthfuls, his tongue tracing over his lips when he stopped.

‘I thought you were gonna…’

‘What?’

‘Pour it, like an offering!’

‘What, and waste good wine?’

‘Don’t you care about the gods?’

‘I’ll care about the gods when they care about me. We’re not Vestal Virgins, are we? At least, I know  _I’m_  not.’ The Roman gestured at the panorama, ‘Can’t talk for you of course, I suppose there’s not much going on in this backwater.’

Aaron didn’t know what  _Vestal_ even meant, but he knew the other word. He got the Roman’s drift alright. This time he couldn’t help himself.

‘You think you’re something, don’t ya? But you’re not. Maybe now’s a good time to remember where you would be if it hadn’t been for… and I  _have_  been to  _Colchester._ ’

He felt the blush burn through him. Why had he said that?

He twisted round and set off stiffly downhill towards his horse.

They’d been there long enough.

 

Maybe the wine had been a mistake.

They’d snuck back in easily enough under cover of darkness. With the funeral of the Briganti warriors well underway, there were too many distractions for anyone to notice, or care about their absence. Even from a distance as they’d approached, they’d seen the glow above the fort from the fires and torches.

‘Feel like you’re missing out?’

‘Pfft! Not likely. But I’d better show my face.’

Almost as soon as he’d stepped out, he was in a throng of dogs, kids, pigs, and clans folk milling about under a full moon, fires on the meadow with deer, lamb, birds and boar turning on great spits.

The music was louder out here, pipes and drum, and Lydia with her lyre, bursts of song in verses, and a solo from Bob the bard accompanied by his harp. Harriet was in a potion-induced trance, he knew she’d be with the dead guiding them on the first leg of their journey to the Otherworld. He turned as someone tapped his shoulder, Ross pressing a jar of mead into his hands.

‘Have you seen my Mum?’

‘Aww, are you missing her? She’s with Zak and Cain looking after the Carvetii. Not that they invited me – nah I’m just the mug who rode to fetch them -  _Thank you, Ross, that’ll be all Ross, run along now and play with the other children, Ross.’_

 _‘_ Where’ve you been, anyway?’ he added, ‘Could have done with you earlier at the burial mound shifting earth.’

Aaron drained the mead in one go, and gave the jar back.

‘Can you just tell her you’ve seen me?’ he said.

 

He’d taken off the tunic and instead wrapped the woolen bed throw round him roman style, like a toga, and now he was weaving towards Aaron, eyes narrowed, with a wide grin on his face that showed off his strong teeth.

‘What ‘ya doing?’ Aaron asked, trying to hide his alarm.

Robert moved closer, a shoulder roll.

‘I’m dancing!’ He sounded indignant that Aaron needed an explanation. He moved up into Aaron’s personal space. ‘C’mon, dance with me.’

‘What? No!’

‘You can’t still be angry with me? Thought you barbarians liked to dance?’

‘It’s funeral music!’

‘So what? You know you want to really.’

The Roman was so close he could feel the warmth from his body, smell the sweet wine on his breath.

‘I really don’t.’

‘You sure about that?’

The Roman smiling at him was unnerving, how it creased the corners of his eyes. He found himself half smiling back, regretted it and turned away. Robert reached out his hands to his waist, steering him back.

He definitely didn’t want to dance.

‘There you go, told you!’ the Roman murmured.

Aaron wasn’t sure what startled him most, the fact that he was swaying in time with the music, or the sensation of Robert’s thumbs on his hips, lightly brushing against his skin through the material of his tunic.

He gulped. He mustn’t think about the size of the Roman’s – erm –  _shoulders –_ or imagine those arms wrapped around him. Or focus on the fullness of his lips, making his own mouth flood.

All at once the music stopped and the Roman leaned back, letting go.

‘No wait!’

The words escaped him, his heart galloping recklessly. Alright, maybe he was still angry, maybe he didn’t want to dance, maybe he didn’t even like the Roman - But he wanted  _this._  He wanted it more than anything he could remember wanting. He inched closer, raised a hand to the Roman’s chest, curling his fingers round the material of the toga, and wet his lips…

There was the click of the latch, a scrape of wood, and noise came flooding in.

‘Aaron! Aaron, I need you to come. Now!’

He sprang back.

It was his mum.

 

 

‘Right, can we just go over it again. You say you were eating fruit together, yes?’

Aaron nodded.

‘And there were seeds, lots of seeds.’

‘Yeah …in…in… his mouth,’ he colored. For once he was glad of the dimness in the druid’s roundhouse, even if it did make him nervous.

It was the day after the funeral and he’d been put on kitchen duty by his mum who’d told him Marlon needed him.

‘Do I?’ Marlon had asked, and then seeing Chas’s face had added, ‘Oh Yes, yes I do!’

So, he’d spent the morning paring charred meat from bones, separating a few to put in a sack to give to the hounds, while the rest had gone in a cauldron that Marlon would take outdoors to make broth.

‘Wouldn’t I be better use mucking out the horses?’ he’d asked.

‘No, Belle’s fine with that.’

‘And Robert, he needs breakfast, although maybe you’d rather he starved to death.’

‘Sam’s with him. Maybe he’s learning to dance. Who knew? Maybe your Roman can teach the whole fine* before he goes.’

Aaron curled his lip, going more fiercely at the bone he was cleaning. He would have answered back, just got up and left them to it. He wasn’t sure how much his mum had seen, he’d told her the Roman had had some wine, that they were just messing about, dancing and that.

But problem was he couldn’t be sure what had happened himself. He kept getting waves of hot nausea just thinking about it. He couldn’t help but think that while the Roman had been drunk and high spirited,  _he’d_  tried to kiss him. And now he wanted to die, or disappear or war to break out so he never had to face him again.

That’s why, when Chas suggested he slept in the roundhouse last night, he hadn’t objected.

And then Marlon had asked him to take the soup to Harriet who was recovering from her trance, and he’d remembered the second dream he’d had, and reluctantly thought he’d better share it.

‘And the seeds turned to blood?’ she asked again.

‘That’s right. Look I’m sorry, I feel really bad bothering you about this.’

‘Don’t be daft. I may be tired, but I’m not an invalid.’

‘So, what do you think then, about what it means, I mean, if it  _means_  anything?’

He watched as Harriet pursed her lips.

‘It’s a tough one, Aaron. Hmm,  _fruit, seeds in the mouth_ , that could mean something good will come out of you rescuing the Roman, some unexpected consequence. But why the  _blood_? Maybe a conversation that opens up of old wounds, not physical wounds, perhaps an event that happened in the past.’

He was struggling to follow. He wished she’d just say something simple like last time -  _summer’s coming_. That was easy enough.

When she spoke again, it was as if she’d read his mind.

‘Of course, the other obvious interpretation is that the dream was about sex. But I’m sure you’d already worked that out. Thank you,’ she waved her spoon, ‘for bringing the soup.’

 

 _Great!_  He walked the long way around back from the Druid’s towards the fine’s roundhouse, avoiding the stables.  _That was two people he’d never be able to look in the eye again!_

Maybe he should just run away, join the Celtic mercenaries he’d heard about fighting in Gaul, trying to disrupt the Roman Peace.

The thing was he knew that sooner or later he’d need to see the Roman, and everything would change, no matter what his reaction was.

 

What he didn’t see was the hooded figure slipping past him down the passageway. He didn’t see, because Harriet, the druid, didn’t want him to see. She kept rapidly on her way, not stopping until she reached the Royal roundhouse.

Once in the doorway, she took down her hood. When no one noticed her she tapped her foot, looking skywards. She’d quite like to get back to her soup. Then finally Cain saw her and nudged Zak and they excused themselves from the Carvetii guests and came over.

‘I came about the Roman patient,’ she said, looking up and down the path, ‘Aaron’s Roman. Aaron had a dream, and I think it could be important for the clan, for all of us. I’m not sure what the future holds, but I do know that the Roman will play his part.’ She added mysteriously.

Cain looked sheepish.

‘What?’

‘I told Sam to get rid.’

‘Why rid, how rid?’ Zak asked, ‘And how come I didn’t know about this?’

‘Why rid?’ Cain answered, ‘Because he’s a spy, Aaron took him out and Sam followed them, and he left some writing for enemy scouts.’

‘How rid? You know the score. Starts with a horse ride, and then,’ he gestured with the flat of his hand against his throat, ‘…after that ends with him lying in a bog.’

Zak and Harriet looked at him, digesting this. Then Harriet pulled rank.

‘Well you’d better call Sam off,’ she said. ‘And, even if he’s well enough to leave, find a way to keep him here for now, as a friend or a guest, let’s think of it as  _Pax Romana.’_

 

‘Decided to show your face, then?’

He’d arrived to the scent of lavender, Robert shaving, a small circular bronze mirror beside him on the bed next to a copper bowl of steaming water and soap. 

There was a tiny rivulet of red against the translucent white on his face, he must have cut himself. Aaron was reminded of his dream. Maybe this was it - as simple as this. Why did it have to be something grand and complicated?

It took him back to those first days after the battle, the sword wounds on his sides and lower back, trying to staunch the flow with rags and hot water, throwing them after on the fire.

He was fine now, though.

‘The first thing I plan to do when I get out of here is go to the baths. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel clean. Have you ever been?’

Aaron shook his head.

‘Well worth a visit, you should try it.’

The mention of the baths unsettled him even more, he knew they served as brothels. He’d overheard Zak talking about what he’d seen when he was in Rome - youths as well as lasses he’d said. Jackson catching his eye, and later riding out and the role play by the tarn, the biting cold wind.

The Roman dried his face. He found the vial of aloe, and opened the lid.

‘About last night, I can hold my wine, but the stuff you stole, it can’t have been stored properly - it was rank. All I can remember is getting back and there was music, I think. And then later I must have passed out. Unlucky for Sam, he had to deal with my breakfast coming back up.’

Aaron grimaced. And then it registered what Robert had just said - if that was the case he didn’t know about the almost kiss! He felt a rush of relief, and then something else – disappointment. Because this way nothing had changed, and he wanted it to change. He wasn’t sure how long he could go on like this. 

‘Anyway, I’ll forgive you for the wine.’

He must have seen the expression on Aaron’s face.

‘Alright, what I should have said is thanks.’

‘For the wine? Or for saving your life? I’m still trying to work out if that was a mistake.’

The Roman blinked.

‘Both?’

He waited, his head half tilted searching Aaron’s eyes. And in spite of himself, Aaron exhaled, and the Roman smiled back.

‘We’re alright then? You and me? Mates?’ He offered a hand. ‘ _Pax Romana_? It’s…’

Aaron looked at his hand.

‘I know what it is. I’ll think about it.’

 

They heard a voice outside, Sam – arriving to say he was going to take the Roman to the fine’s roundhouse to eat.

‘This’ll be fun. Now I’ll finally get to see where you actually live.’ The Roman stretched his eyes, ‘Seems you were right after all, I’m not a hostage.’

 

Aaron was almost at the door, when the Roman called after him.

‘Yesterday – There was something I forgot to tell you. I’ve been to Colchester too.’

‘Okay?’

‘Yeah, quite a few times, and I like it there. I like it there a lot, actually. I just wanted you to know, in case you weren’t sure.’

‘Right.’

He opened the door and stepped out into the sunlight.

 

It took him a moment for his mind to catch up with his beating heart. And for the smile at nothing in particular to spread on his face.

He’d wanted something to change, and now finally, it had.

 

Of course, they never actually went to Colchester,not to the city. But for years after Aaron would remember that day in the stable in the fort at Emmer, long after it had turned to dust, except for the falling earth ramparts and the barrows where the dead warriors lay.

**Author's Note:**

> * fine - the smallest family unit of a celtic tribe  
> 


End file.
